The Girl in the Grand Piano
by Spookykat
Summary: Dr. Sam Becket, a time-traveling physicist, swaps bodies with Dr. Brennan in order to stop Booth for being sentenced to life imprisonment for a murder which he did not commit.
1. Chapter 1

Prologue:

"Theorizing that one could travel within his own lifetime, Dr. Sam Beckett stepped into the Quantum Leap accelerator, and vanished. He awoke to find himself trapped in the past, facing mirror images that were not his own, and driven by an unknown force to change history for the better. His only guide on this journey is Al; an observer from his own time, who appears in the form of a hologram that only Sam can see and hear. And so, Dr. Beckett finds himself leaping from life to life, striving to put right what once went wrong, and hoping each time that his next leap, will be the leap home."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

She did not even remember closing her eyes, but now she was waking up. She was at her desk at the Jeffersonian and the building was deserted, so she decided it would be the perfect time to work on revisions of the next installment of her Kathy-and-Andy series. And then…

A flash?

She couldn't even really say for certain there was a flash. All she knew now was that she woke up to find herself in a very cold, deep blue, barely furnished room.

"Am I in a morgue?" she asked into the air.

She reached for her cell-phone. It would be useful if she still had it. She could call…well, at least she could let someone know she was in trouble.

But her pockets were gone. She glanced down at her hands to discover that she was dressed in a white long-sleeved turtleneck. And she had pants to match.

"SOMEBODY HELP!" She yelled, banging on the walls. "BOOTH!! ANYBODY!!!!"

Finally a door slid open and a man entered. He was about her father's age with graying hair that still had sprinklings of its former black. He was dressed in a plum-colored suit with a black shirt and silver tie.

"That suit looks hideous," she said.

"You're not exactly the Queen of Tact, are you, sweetheart?"

"Sweetheart?" she blurted. out , thoroughly confused. "Hearts aren't sweet. They…"

"Taste like chicken?" he finished.

She scowled. "Cannibalism is NOT funny. Just let me out of here," she said.

"I can't do that," he replied.

"Can't or won't?" she demanded. "Who are you?"

"My name is Al Callivicci. We're not going to hurt you."

"We? Who's we?? Look. Just let me go and you will avoid charges of kidnapping a federal employee and steeling government property."

"You're _on_ government property," he answered, shaking his head. "And I am not going to get Court Martialled conducting a government-approved research project."

"Research project?! You mean I'm your personal guinea pig? You can't just keep me here against my will! People will be looking for me soon."

"I would love to let you leave, but I _promise…_you don't want to go through that door," he said. "Do you know who you are?"

"I'm Dr. Temperance Brennan. And yes, I do think I want to go out that door."

"Dr. Brennan," he said, pulling a strange device out of his pocket. It looked something like the I-phone she'd seen Hodgins carry. "Tell me what you see." He held the reflective back end of it up in front of her face…

The face staring back in the reflection wasn't hers. This was the face of a man. Brown eyes replaced her own blue ones. She ran her fingers through her hair, or at least, what used to be her hair. Now it was wheat-colored, peppered with gray and a white streak on her…or was it his?

"Oh…my…God!" She mumbled, and her legs became too weak to support her.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

THE JEFFERSONIAN

June 08, 2008, 8:00 AM

Over the years, Dr. Sam Beckett learned that it was best to expect the unexpected. Leaping from life to life had landed him directly into some rather sticky situations, providing fairly harsh introductions to the life he was supposed to fix. He'd found himself both on stage in the middle of a performance at Carnegie Hall , in the middle of a rock concert, in the middle of a stand-up routine, in the cockpit of a plane on a couple of occasions, on battlegrounds in the middle of combat, and even once, quite literally, he arrived on a flying trapeze. In short, if it was bizarre, dangerous, or humiliating, that was generally when Sam arrived in his new host's life. So when he opened his eyes to find himself alone in a meticulously clean, well-lit, spacious office with only the blinking cursor on the computer screen demanding his attention, he breathed a sigh of relief.

"Thank you," he said to whomever was responsible for this small gift.

According to the monitor, it was Monday, June 8, 2008, 8:00 AM and according to the screen saver behind the opened document, Sam was an employee of the Jeffersonian Institution. The name tag at his desk read "Dr. Temperance Brennan."

"The crime novelist?"

Sam remembered reading on the back of the book jacket of that Dr. Brennan was a forensic anthropologist. He even met her at a book signing once.

On the plus side, he'd leaped into a doctor. Being a doctor himself, that was familiar territory. But this particular doctor was a woman. Not that Sam had anything against women. Not in the slightest. He'd leaped into women many times before. His circumstances taught him one thing--whoever composed the song 'I Enjoy Being a Girl' had no clue what he was talking about. Just ask anyone who ever had to endure high heels.

He knew where he was, when he was, and whom he'd leaped into. That was a start. Now, maybe if he could find out why he was here, fix whatever history needed fixing, and then...

Leap home?

Sam didn't have much time to dwell on that because just then, a man entered the office. He was in his thirties, tall, broad-shouldered with dark hair and brown eyes. Something about him was vaguely familiar.

"Chop, chop, Bones!" he said. "New crime scene. I know you're a music-lover, so you'll appreciate this one. Body found in a music school."

"One second," Sam said, trying to buy some extra time so he could find out more, and glanced down at his computer screen. Then he realized where he'd seen the man before. 'The FBI Agent in the series! It's him!' "I'll be right with you, Andy."

"Andy?!" the man guffawed. "Bones, are you doing that on-line dating thing again? After what happened with that one guy, I thought chat-rooms were off-limits for you. Time's a-wastin'! Tell TenInch6969 goodbye and let's rock and roll!"

"TenInch6969?" Sam asked, bewildered.

The man rolled his eyes. "Nevermind. Just come on! And then almost as an afterthought: "You wanna grab breakfast first?"

"I already ate," Sam said, hoping against hope that would be enough to avoid potential disaster.

"A granola bar?" he said, picking up an old wrapper out of the wastebasket. "Hardly what I'd call the breakfast of champions, Bones."

"What about the crime scene?"

Not that Sam was particularly interested in early-morning carnage, but avoiding lengthy conversation before Al arrived with pertinent information seemed to be less and less of a possibility.

*~*~*~*~

Santa Fe, NM

June 08, 2015

Quantum Leap Headquarters

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"This has to be a dream," Brennan said, half to herself. "It has to be a dream because nothing else about this scenario makes sense because...things just *make sense* in this world, and this...this makes absolutely no sense at all. None."

Al shook his head. "No dream."

"Then put me back! I have to get back to my job. A very important job. I happen to be the best in the world in my field, you know."

Al raised an eyebrow. "Kind of full of ourselves, aren't we?"

"I'm not bragging. It's a fact," she protested.

"Listen. If it were up to me, you could click your heels three times and say 'there's no place like home' and be on your way.'

"Clicking heels any number of times is not an adequate mode of transportation."

He shook his head. "Never mind. If it were up to me, I'd let you go. GLADLY. But it's not up to me, it's up to Him," Al said with a glance upward.

"I don't believe," she said, shaking her head.

"God, Time, whatever it is you think is in control of the universe. Look, I ain't exactly what you'd call the prayin' type, either."

"This is not the time or place for a discussion about theology. Who's in charge here?"

"That would be Yours Truly."

She folded her arms and stood up as straight as possible. "Let. Me. Go."

"I told you I..."

Just then the door slid open. A young Naval officer entered.

"At ease, Corporal Anderson. Is Goushie locked in on Sam?"

"Affirmative, Admiral. Ziggy is downloading necessary information and your presence is requested in the Imaging Chamber. And the files on Special Agent Seeley Booth are classified."

"Sam?" Brennan asked. "Who's Sam? What do you want with Booth?!"

Corporal Anderson looked at her, completely bewildered. "You are, sir."

"What do you want with Booth?" Brennan asked.

"Thank you, Corporal," Al said, rolling his eyes.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT WITH BOOTH?!" Brennan screamed.

"I don't know!" Corporal Anderson squeaked.

"Now we've got a problem," he muttered. "You're dismissed, Corporal.

Poor Corporal Anderson couldn't leave the room fast enough.

"You're an Admiral?" Brennan asked.

Al nodded.

"So everybody else thinks I'm this Sam person?"

"Except me."

"And Sam is..."

"A buddy of mine. A physicist. This place was his idea. Everybody here thinks you're Sam because that's what they see. Everybody in your own time sees Sam as you."

"And this place is?"

"The headquarters of a government-funded experiment called Quantum Leap based in Santa Fe. This is what we call The Waiting Room."

"So I'm a lab rat?"

"Sorta. Yeah."

She grimaced at the memory of the rats that were fed laxatives in the name of science, and she didn't even want to think about how Zach figured out how to kill them before dissections.

"A lot of cruel things were done to poor innocent rats in the name of science," she said quietly, wondering what was going to happen to her.

"Nobody's here to hurt you."

"Why am I here?"

Al dug into his pocket and took out a piece of string.

"I'm here because of a piece of string?"

He gave Brennan an annoyed look. "Humor me. This," he said, holding it out from end to end, "represents the space-time continuum during a lifetime. One end is birth. The other end is death."

"Space-time?"

Al nodded. "Dr. Beckett figured out how to connect both ends," he continued, demonstrating by attaching both ends of the string. "So that each point in time connects and allows him to go back and forth within his own lifetime."

"I still don't understand. How did we switch? And for what purpose?"

"That part of Sam's plan went a little ca-ca."

"Ca-ca?"

"Just think of us as God's clean-up crew."

"I TOLD you! I don't believe..."

"You're here because something went wrong in your original history."

"What does that have to do with Booth and me?"

"That's what I need to find out, but unfortunately, I can't do that until I know something about this Booth character. Now. Help me help you. Tell me what you know about Seeley Booth."

*~*~*~*~

June 08, 2008

Royal Diner

15 Minutes later

*~*~*~*~*

Sam tried to keep the conversation at breakfast as general as possible until he could find out more about his breakfast companion.

"You okay, Bones?" the man asked with a look of concern on his face. "You seem...distant."

"I'm fine," Sam answered, glad that the man was now digging his cell phone out of his coat pocket, relieving him of any obligation to make conversation for the time being.

This would at least occupy him for awhile.

The man nodded with a doubtful expression on his face. "If you say so..." and then into the phone: "Booth," he answered.

"Oh good," Sam thought, wondering if Al was ever going to make an appearance. 'I finally have a name.'

"I see..." Booth said to whomever it was on the phone, "well, what about his mother?" Then mouthing to Sam: "Parker up-chucked" Then aloud into the phone: "Can't be reached, huh? Perfect. Yes I'm well aware of the policy, but there's nothing I can...look I can't..no, it's not that AT ALL. It's not that I'm not thrilled to have the chance to take care of my son, but I'm in the middle of an important case. Look...fine Mrs. Hennessey, just give me an hour, I'll take care of things and then get him."

Booth sighed and took a twenty out of his pocket and left it on the table. "We've gotta make this quick, Bones. At least Parker's school is five blocks from the investigation."

*****

Twenty Minutes Later

Washington Conservatory of Music

One Westmoreland Circle

Bethesda, MD

"Sign in, please," a short, stout elderly woman with bottle-red hair said, looking over the rim of her pink-framed horn-rimmed glasses.

"I'm FBI Special Agent Seeley Booth," he told her. "And this is my partner Dr. Temperance Brennan. We're here about the remains."

Behind her, a short, balding man with thick glasses wearing a plaid shirt and high-wasted pants dropped a folder on the floor just then. He let out a sigh of frustration. "One moment, sir. I'll be right with you."

"Good thing we're not the fashion police," Booth muttered with a smirk.

The man just extended a hand, dropping the folder he was holding again. "Margaret," he said to the secretary. "Get that for me, please." Margaret rolled her eyes. "I'm Walter Belcher, Dean of Students. Thank you so much for coming. We've had to cancel classes this morning because of this whole ordeal, and you can imagine how anxious everyone is to put this whole wretched ordeal behind us."

"Uh-huh," Booth said absently as they followed Belcher down a winding staircase into a hall full of small rooms.

They stopped at one of the rooms down at the end of the hall.

"This particular room has not been open for quite some time."

"And how many people have access to the whole building?"

"Well, that would be myself, Margaret, the head of the piano faculty Dr. Thomas Callahan, and the janitorial and maintenance staff," Belcher answered.

"We'll need their names and contact information," Booth replied.

"Gladly, Agent Booth," he said, and then muttered "Now where is that stupid key?"

"And you're sure that there's nobody else who might have access?" Booth asked.

"Well, if anyone did, we wouldn't have been looking for the key to be missing."

"What do you mean?" Sam asked.

"The instrument is virtually unplayable and the cost to repair it is worth more than the piano itself, so this particular practice room has remained locked to the best of my knowledge for my entire tenure here. That is, until early this morning."

"How was the body found?"

"We were evaluating all the pianos in the facility to qualify for funding to become an All-Steinway School when we came upon this…and one of the students mentioned something about a foul odor coming from the room after last night's performance."

He opened the door.

"The lock hasn't been tampered with," Booth said quietly, studying the knob. "Whoever did this definitely had a key."

Sam was almost knocked over by the stench of what had to be the rotting corpse.

The room itself was only big enough to fit a baby-grand piano, this particular one a dilapidated old Steinway and Sons that looked so old Sam wondered if the keys were the ivory that piano companies used long ago. If it was, in fact, real ivory, it was long-chipped off on several of the keys. Sam opened the lid. The strings and hammers were removed. Where the strings and hammers should have been, Sam saw a partially decomposed, glistening skeleton. Thin long blonde hair still remained on the top of the skeleton's head.

'If I'm here to save her,' Sam thought. 'I'm a little late.'

"What do you think, Bones?" Booth asked.

"Oh boy," was all Sam could say in response.


	2. Chapter 2

J. Edgar Hoover Building FBI Headquarters Washington DC 

***** 

Private detective Abby Gallagher was exhausted. The back of her thighs were still red and stinging from sticking to the vinyl of her '91 Saturn for the majority of the night before. She hadn't slept in forty-eight hours and the four-pack of Red Bulls she'd consumed in order to do her job had already begun to wreak havoc on her bladder.

"" Abby tried to tell herself over and over again, but her hands wouldn't stop trembling. She balled her hands into fists and took a deep breath. Red Bull alone didn't have this sort of effect on her.

Abby glanced over the photographs she'd taken over the last 48 hours. The first one taken was of him on a case with an auburn-haired woman. The second one was at his apartment with a small tow-headed boy. The third was taken at the Jeffersonian Institution, the fourth leaving a gym near his apartment. The fifth was taken at a diner. He was with the same woman in the first photo. He was decidedly hot, she observed, and if it had been different circumstances, she definitely would have given him her number.

She glanced at the clock in the dashboard. "Oh, crap! I'm late!" She hissed. She stuffed the photographs into a plain manilla folder. Her hands were still shaking as she locked the door.

'Too late to grow a conscience now," she told herself and got her visitor's pass.

Not that she was doing anything *really* wrong. It was a job, a good-paying one at that, and the bills, after all, wouldn't be paying themselves any time soon. She wasn't breaking any laws.

But she knew that the subject of her photos was an FBI Agent. She knew better than to ask why they'd retained her to tail one of their own.

She checked herself in the reflection of the walls on the elevator on the way up to the office one last time. Her long frizzy brown hair made it impossible to straighten and her weariness showed on her face. The redness from the fatigue made the blue in her eyes brighter than it normally was. She applied foundation as an attempt to cover up the circles under her eyes.

"Excuse me," she told the secretary at the front desk.  "I'm here to see Assistant Director David Faulk."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No, but I believe he's expecting me."

"Ms. Gallagher, come in, come in," said a tall man with silver hair and a kind face. He reminded her of her grandfather.

"I have the photographs you wanted sir," she said, laying the manilla folder on her desk. "And I am sure you're aware that the routine isn't exactly solid with his line of work, but in the folder, you'll find a log of his activities."

"Thank you, ma'am. This is all for now. I trust you've been well compensated?"

"Yes, sir," she said.

"That is all, Ms. Gallagher. Thank you."

Abby nodded.

She turned to leave, and just before she opened the door, she stopped.

"Sir, may I ask…"

"No, you may not. Good bye, Ms. Gallagher."

She mumbled a good-bye and left as fast as her feet would carry her. No, she shouldn't feel guilty. It was a job. Abby shut her eyes to erase the memory of the handsome man in the photograph and the woman that was with him in the first one and the little boy in the third one. She shook her head. It was none of her concern.

Down in the parking garage, she could overhear a one-way conversation. Somebody was on his cell-phone.

"Yes, I know Booth's becoming a problem..." he was saying on the phone in his office. "You've got the photos? Good. We know his routine now. Don't worry, I'm handling it. No, no, there are less messy ways of taking care of this. I've got my people on it."

Abby felt sorry for the man she'd been watching for the last three days. She'd taken snapshots of his comings and goings. She knew he was a good man. She knew whatever it was that they had in store for him was wrong, but what could she do about it? She took a deep breath and shakily exhaled. She felt as though she was delivering a death sentence. As exhausted as she may have felt before the meeting with the Assistant Director, she knew that sleep would not come easily that night.

*~*~*~*~*~*~

Washington Conservatory of Music

Bethesda, MD June 08 2008 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

"Bones?" Booth asked, brow wrinkling with concern. "What's wrong? I've never seen you react to a body like that. In fact, I've NEVER seen you react to a body AT ALL."

"Just wasn't prepared for that," Sam said.

Booth nodded. "Try and make it quick, okay? I've got about ten minutes before we have to swing by and pick Parker up."

Sam studied the remains. His medical expertise taught him waht to look for. "Female...young, prepubescent," Sam said, studying the pelvic area. Approximately ten to twelve years of age." Sam looked at the skull. "There appears to be a hairline fracture, a possible indication of blunt-force trauma to the head, giving us a possible cause of death."

Margaret entered with a pair of men carrying a stretcher and a body bag. "Right this way, gentlemen...oh!" she gasped, getting a glimpse of the body. "Who is she?"

"We'll find out," Sam promised her.

"Bones," Booth said, pointing to his watch. "The Medical Examiner's here. They'll take the body to the Jeffersonian. We should head out now."

"Oh right...your son," Sam said and with that they left Booth's car.

"You don't mind coming with me to get Parker, do you?"

"Why would I mind?" Sam asked

"Well, usually you're chompin' at the bit for a chance to play with your bones. I don't have time drop you off at the Jeffersonian. I'm due at Parker's school in ten minutes."

Sam nodded.

"This weird behavior," Booth said, turning the keys. "It wouldn't have anything to do with what happened with Zach, would it?"

"Zach?"ï¿½ Sam echoed, wondering who this Zach person was.

"That would be Dr. Zachary Uriah Addy, currently staying at a nearby facility for the criminally insane in upstate New York," said a familiar voice behind him.

Sam jumped. "Don't do that!"ï¿½ he hissed.

"Woah, Bones! Slow down on the coffee, okay? And don't do *what* exactly?"ï¿½

Sam ignored Al for the moment and looked for anything that could be an excuse. He glanced over at the speedometer. The needle was at the fifty mph mark in a residential area. "Go over the speed limit?"

"We're late. And besides, I think it's okay to bend the rules once in awhile for personal errands. We can speed if we've got the siren on,"ï¿½ he said, flipping them on and speeding up even faster.

"Your driver is one FBI Special Agent Seeley Booth, thirty-six. Former sniper with the Army," Al glanced over in Booth's direction, "Yeah, pretty-boy *would* be an Army pansy. He has one brother, Jared, who works for the Pentagon. One son, aged six, Parker."ï¿½

"I went to visit him this weekend at the loony-bin." Booth said.

"Facility for the mentally disabled," Sam corrected.

"Dig into your right pocket and grab the cell phone so we can talk without having Sir Lancelot here thinking you should belong in the loony-bin along with him."

"Whatever," Booth said. "I tried to invite you, but your phone wasn't turned on."ï¿½

"That's all right," Sam replied, turning the phone off as discretely as possible and putting it up to his ear. "Yeah?" Sam said, pretending to answer.

"Was your phone turned off for a particular reason Bones?"

"The date is June eighth, 2008. You are Dr. Temperance Brennan, aged thirty-two," Al said. "You are a forensic anthropologist working for the Jeffersonian Institution."

"Tell me something I don't know," Sam groused.

"Beeks and Goushie hooked up," Al said with a look of disgust. "How anyone could stand that breath, I don't even want to know..."

"Is that Angela? Is she back from her non-honeymoon yet?" Booth wanted to know.

"What took you so long?" Sam demanded, ignoring Booth.

"Sorry, the FBI has a lock on all info of federal employees since the 9-11 attacks. We had to do a little digging."

"I'll be right back," Booth said, pulling up to the parking-lot of a school.

"This chick you leapt into is turning out to be a real pain in the toush and has an ego bigger than the Pacific Ocean."

"So just tell me what I've got to do so I can leap out of here," Sam said.

"According to our records, Agent Booth is arrested and tried for murder, found guilty and sentenced to life without parole."

Booth was coming towards them now, a little blonde-headed boy in tow.

"Booth? A murderer? Al, are you sure?"

Sam hadn't known the man for very long, but he had a hard time believing he was capable of something like that.

"Arrested in three days for the murder of Abby Gallagher."

"Try not to spew in the car, okay, buddy?" He said, buckling him in the back seat.

"Daddy?" the boy asked.

"Yeah, buddy?"

"Who're they?"

"What d'you mean, buddy?" Booth asked, looking around.

"There's one guy wearing Bones' nametag sitting where she usually does...and there's someone sitting next to me. He dresses funny."

"I do not dress funny!" Al protested.

Parker laughed, which started a coughing fit. "You do, too!" he finally rasped.

Sam felt the blood drain from his face.

"That's it," Booth said. "I'm taking you to Sweets."

*~*~*~

"He's just pretending," Sam said, hoping it would be enough to quell Booth's suspicion.

"Yeah," Al told Parker. "This is kinda like a…a game. We're pretending that that man in the front seat is Daddy's partner…"

"Where's Bones?" Parker asked. "If you guys took her, that means you're bad guys. I gotta tell my dad if you're bad guys. He's FBI."

"Ohhh, no no no," Al explained. "We're not bad guys. We're good guys. We're trying to help Bones and your daddy."

"But why do you gotta take Bones away?"

"Parker? What are you talking about? Bones is sitting right next to me," Booth said with a worried look on his face.

"That's right, Parker, I'm right here," Sam said as convincingly as he could.

"You're not Bones!" Parker protested.

"Kids and their imaginations!" Sam said with a nervous chuckle.

"Who were you talking to a second ago?" Booth asked.  "The man in the back seat with me, Daddy!" Parker said as though it were the most logical answer in the world.

With a squeal of the breaks, Sam lurched forward as Booth pulled over to the side of the road. In a flash, Booth got out of the car with his gun at the ready.

"Get out with your hands up!" he yelled.

"He said get out," Parker told Al.

Sam motioned to Al to leave, but Al shook his head.

"There's nobody in the back seat with you, Parker," Booth said.

"My name is Al…I'm…I'm an Angel. We're kind of playing a game of pretend."

Sam tried his best not to laugh at that. His best friend was a lot of things, but 'angel' wasn't at the top of his list of discriptives.

"Sam, that's the man wearing Bones' nametag and I, we're trying to help your Daddy."

"Bones is…let's see…where's Bones? Bones is… um…having fun with us," Al said, hoping Parker wouldn't see through his lie.

"In heaven?"

"Who's in heaven, Parker?" Booth demanded.

"Ssssh! I'm talking to the angel!"

Booth shook his head and got his cell phone out. "Sweets, clear your calendar. My son is seeing things and talking to things that aren't there."

"She'll be right back though!" Al added helpfully.

"When?"

"Soon."

"Soon is what adults say when they really mean never," Parker said dejectedly.

"Well, I mean what I say, Parker, and I promise Bones will be back really really soon."

"Daddy's not going to be very happy about *that*," Parker said. "He doesn't like it when Bones isn't with him.

"Daddy's not going to be very happy about *what*, Parker?" Booth demanded, looking from Sam to Parker's reflection in the rear view mirror.

"Ssssh! It's pretend, remember?" Al said. "And….if you wanna speak to me, we're pretending that nobody but you and Sam…"

"You mean Bones?" Parker said knowingly.

Al nodded, forgiving Parker for the moment for not whispering. "Hey, you're a smart kid. Now you're catchin' on. So Daddy can't see me, nobody but you and Sam…I mean Brenn…er…Bones…so you've gotta be reeeeally quiet."

"What are you guys doing here?" Parker whispered in a way that really wasn't quiet enough to be called a whisper.

"We're trying to help your Daddy and Bones," Al said. "But if we're going to do that, we're going to need your help. You've gotta pretend that Sam, that's my friend, is Bones and that I'm invisible. Can you do that?"

"Who are you talkin' to back there, Buddy?" Booth asked.

"Nobody," Parker said. "Did I pretend good?" he whispered to Al next to him.

Sam chuckled at that and gave Al a look of relief through the rear-view mirror and mouthed a 'Thank you.' *~*~*~* The Jeffersonian was a great deal busier than it was when he left it this morning. That, of course, was no surprise. Everyone wore the same dark blue lab-coats bearing the Jeffersonian logo that he, himself was wearing.

"Sorry Cam," Booth said. "We had to go pick up Parker. SWEETS!" he called, nearly dragging his son up to the psychologist's office.

"Hi Cam! Bye Cam!" Parker said.

"Hi Parker," she said with a grin. And then to Sam, "Why is Booth taking him up to see Sweets?"

"Parker was playing a very spirited game of pretend, and Booth over-reacted."

"Booth? Over-react? No way!"

"Well, it *was* a pretty intense game of pretend," Sam added.

"Thought you'd like to know the findings on the remains," Cam said.

"I'm gonna go check on Parker," Al said after taking one look at the body on the table, and disappeared.

"There is a hair-line fracture on the skull," Cam informed him.

"I know…what else can you tell me."

"The soil particulates I found in her tennis shoes would indicate that she's been in north Georgia recently," said a tall, wiry man with blonde, curly hair. The nametag on his lab coat read 'Hodgins'. "If I had pinesap, I could tell you where. But the maggot-growth definitely indicate she's been dead for approximately forty-eight hours."

Sam nodded. "Do we have an I.D. yet?"

"Angela's working on a rendering," he said. "We're running the composite through the missing-persons data base."

"What else have you got?"

"Initial autopsy won't reveal much until the tox-screen comes back, but I did find a hairline fracture in the skull," Cam said, showing him the fracture he found earlier underneath the few strands of hair that remained.

"Yeah, I uh, caught that," Sam said.

"That's not the cause of death." Cam replied. She touched a screen, which showed a diagram of the girl's skull. "We have some bruising around what was left of the brain. Enough to be knocked out, but not enough to be the fatal blow."

"So she was knocked unconscious before she died?" Sam asked.

Cam nodded. "By the shape of the fracture," she said, pointing it out, "I'd say it was by something with a flat edge. Like she hit her head on a table or something."

"Except," said a young black man wearing a nametag that read 'Clarke' "that the angle of the striations indicates that the killer struck the victim on the head from behind…" he typed something into a laptop and a eighty-five-degree angle appeared on the screen illustrating how the fracture must have been caused.

"We have a rendering!" came a triumphant cry from behind them. A tall girl with long, wavy dark hair wearing a low-cut clingy lavender top with tight gray pants emerged with a drawing of a blonde-haired girl with fair skin about sixteen years of age.

"Rebecca Holden," she said. "According to the Missing Persons Database, she ran away from her home north of Atlanta six months ago."

"I'll call the parents and ask them to come up for an interview," Booth said, coming up behind her.

"She's from North of Atlanta, Ange?"

She nodded. "In a little town called Dahlonega."

"The gold in the capital dome in Atlanta came from that city. You can pan for gold there in the river. It's kind of a tourist trap," Clarke intergected.

"Sounds like you've been there," Sam said.

"Went with my grandparents once when I was a kid. Dahlonega is also home to what is arguably the best fudge in the world."

"That would explain the clay," Hodgins replied.

"So what killed her?" Sam asked, half to himself. "And where did she die? And why did the killer hide her in a piano of all places?"

It seemed the more answers they found only led to more questions. Sam was racing against the clock. He had to find out who killed this girl sooner rather than later so he could concentrate on preventing the murder of that Abby girl.

Just then a very frightened-looking young girl in her twenties with frizzy brown hair and blue eyes approached them.

"Agent Booth," she said.

"Yes?" Booth asked.

"My name is Abby Gallagher," she said.

"And you're here because…" Cam prompted her.

"I came here to warn you, Agent Booth," she said with a trembling voice. "I'm a private investigator. I shouldn't even be here," tears were streaming down her face now. "if they knew…"

"If *who* knew?" Sam asked, but one look from Booth told him to be quiet.

"I was sent to watch your weekly routine. I don't know why and I can't tell you who, but I would strongly advise you to eat at different diners, go to different gyms, hell, even skip town for the next week or so. Take your son on vacation…just…watch out."

"Wait one damn second. What the HELL does my son have to do with this?" Booth demanded in an almost-growl.

"I-I-I don't know," she stammered.

"Like hell you don't," he countered. "You're going to tell me everything you know. And I might not arrest you for obstruction of justice."

"Look. I was doing a *job*. The one you should be arresting for obstructing justice is the person who hired me. I am risking my life coming here like this. I didn't have to tell you anything."

Suddenly, Al appeared.

"Uh-oh, Sam," he said, consulting Ziggy. "Looks like we're changing history, but not so much for the better. The Gallagher kid's dead by this time tomorrow."

"What?!"

"Well I don't!" Abby insisted, thinking he was addressing her. "And to think I felt sorry for you!" She seethed, this time in Booth's direction. "Look, believe what you want, but what possible motive would I have for coming here to warn you if I wanted to hurt your son. You people are Un- FREAKING-believable. This is what I get for trying to do the right thing."

"Abby!" Sam called after her, but she was already gone.


	3. Chapter 3

The Jeffersonian June 08, 2008

"Ooookay then," Angela said as soon as Abby was out of earshot. "That was weird."

"She seemed a little high-strung," Cam said, turning her attention back to the cadaver.

"That's the understatement of the century," Hodgins said with a snort.

Sam wanted to go after her. If Abby's murder was why he was here, he was obviously there to save her life as well as protect Booth from being arrested for her murder. If Al were here, Ziggy could tell him where Abby was, but for now, all he could do was focus on the murder at hand.

"Booth," Sam said. "It might not be a bad idea at the very least to check her story out."

"Probably wacked out on drugs," Booth said with a shrug. "We've kind of got more important things to deal with, Bones," he added, pointing to the corpse.

Cam's Blackberry buzzed. "We've got the tox screen results back," she said. "They found slight traces of marijuana use in her hair, but beyond that, she's clean."

"See?" Booth said. "Wacked out on drugs."

"Trace amounts, Booth," Sam argued. "Trace amounts means that maybe she tried it once a couple of years ago. That's hardly 'wacked out.' You know that stuff stays in your hair follicles for up to three years? And Rebecca Holden isn't the one we're concerned about following you for the last week. The girl I'm concerned about is very much alive." 'For now,' Sam added silently.

"But still..."

"If someone were trying to find my comings and goings, I'd sure as hell want to know why. At least I'd find out if the story held any water."

Just then a shorter man with a youthful face and dark hair walked towards them.

"Sweets, what's wrong with my son?" Booth demanded.

"Your son has a healthy imagination which is totally okay for little dudes his age. Right now there are bigger fish to fry."

Al appeared just behind Sweets. "Take a bathroom break, Sam," Al said, which was code for something he found out.

"The parents of the deceased are here," Sweets announced.

"You go ahead, I'll meet up with you," Sam told both of them.

Booth nodded.

"Whatchya got, Al?" Sam asked once they were in the bathroom.

"Cause of death for Rebecca Holden was officially ruled by Dr. Camilla Soroyan as a fractured skull."

"But that's impossible," Sam said, pacing. "That woman Cam said there wasn't enough bruising for the fracture to be fatal."

"What are you saying, Sam? You think someone was fudging the reports?"

"No, I don't think anyone from the lab would do that. I have to believe it was because no other cause of death could be determined and that was the only thing they had to hold onto."

"Listen," Sam suddenly said. "What can you give me on a private investigator named Abby?"

"Does Abby have a last name?"

"I think I met the girl who gets murdered in a few days."

"Ohhhh, THAT Abby," Al said, pulling Ziggy out and punching a few keys.

"Abigail Anne Gallagher. Aged 20. Hadn't been a private investigator for more than six months before she was murdered. 4.0 in high school but went to a community college to get a criminal justice degree...that's weird. Could-a been anything with that GPA, but she just went to a community college."

"College isn't for everybody," Sam replied.

"Ain't that the truth!" Al agreed, and continued. "She grew up in Manchester, NY. Came to DC to be with boyfriend, Doug Stayton. Here's something. Shes got a juvenile file, but that's sealed."

"Maybe that's why she never went off to college," Sam suggested.

"Might explain it," Al said and started to say something else, but was interrupted by the opening door.

"Hey Bren," Angela said, coming in. "Who are you talking to in there?"

"Just on my cell phone," Sam said meekly.

"Oh," she said with a puzzled look on her face. "Well, Booth's waiting for you in interrogation, Sweetie."

*~*~*~*~*~

Through the glass in the interrogation, Sam saw a woman with bleach-blond hair in her fifties wearing copious amounts of turquoise jewelry to accessorize a bright bubble-gum-pink dress that revealed a large bosom and did nothing to camouflage her rather sizable waistline.

Her husband was at least a decade older wearing a Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts. His hands were resting on his potbelly and if the man hadn't reacted to what his wife was saying, Sam would've wondered if he were dead.

The young man Booth had called Sweets handed him an earpiece.

"Who are they?" Sam asked him, putting the earpiece in.

"Lyndon and Tammy Holden. Rebecca Holden's father and stepmother. Delightful couple," Sweets added sarcastically.

"Lyndon, stop fidgeting!" hissed the woman in the interrogation room. "You're driving me nuts!"

"Tammy," he replied coolly. "I am not fidgeting. I'm NOT putting up with your bull today, so just shut yer trap! And," he added, "you're already nuts."

"Well, I must be to put up with you all these years!" she snapped.

Lyndon rolled his eyes.

Just then Booth came in with Sam close behind him.

"Thank you for coming down today, folks," Booth began.

"Sir," she said, turning to Booth, "is there any way we can hurry this along? I'm missin' Oprah!"

"Certainly," Booth said and showed them the rendering Angela did of the body. "Is this your daughter?"

"Becca..." the man choked.

"Yeah, that's her," Tammy drawled with a sigh.

"I'm sorry to say that we've found her body," he finished. "She's been dead for about two days."

"I wish I could say I was surprised," Tammy answered.

"She could be a suspect," Sam heard Sweets' voice say in his ear.

"She was a good girl!" Lyndon said before Tammy could answer.

"Lyndon, be quiet!" Tammy told him.

"She was...troubled," Lyndon supplied.

"Turned my hairs gray from worryin' so damn much," Tammy interjected.

Sam could tell Booth was suppressing a snort at that. "You don't seem terribly concerned, Ma'am."

"I married Tammy when Becca was ten," Lyndon explained. "Her and Becks never really saw eye-to-eye. Yeah, she got into her fair share of trouble, but deep down she was a good girl."

"Waaaay deep down," Tammy added. "She just up and left one day. Didn't even call at Christmas. Lyndon was worried sick."

"And you weren't?" Booth asked.

"She's been a thorn in my side ever since I moved in with Lyndon," she answered.

"So you didn't like her very much did you?" Sam asked.

"I didn't kill her ma'am, if that's what you're askin'" she insisted.

"Can someone vouch for your where-a-bouts on June sixth?" Booth asked.

"I was takin' care of my sister who just had hip replacement," she replied huffily.

"We'll need her contact information to verify," Booth said. "Do you know of anyone she was having problems with? Someone who might've wanted to hurt her?" Booth glanced accusatorily at Tammy as if to say 'Besides you,' but didn't say that out loud.

"She didn't have any enemies back home," Lyndon said.

"We don't know what she got into while she was here," Tammy snapped. "But she was up to somethin'. Called her grandma askin' for money."

"Why didn't I know anything about this?" Lyndon hissed.

"Because, Lyndon," Tammy retorted, "you would've given her money and I wasn't having THAT."

"She's my baby girl, Tammy. You help flesh-and-blood when you can. You're right. I would've given her the money. But dadgummit, Tammy, why did you always have to be the wedge between us? She wouldn't-a left if you'd-a just been respectful. But you never even tried to get along!"

"Well, she didn't exactly extend an olive branch, either," Tammy seethed.

"Um, hello?" Booth said, waving his hand trying to get them to stop arguing.

"Sorry, sir," Tammy finally said in a saccharine tone.

"What killed her?" Lyndon asked quietly.

"We found a hairline fracture on the skull indicating that she was hit on the head, although we're unable to determine cause of death at this time," Sam replied.

"English, Bones," Booth mumbled.

"So you don't know," Lyndon said.

"No, sir," Sam said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "But we're working on that."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

June 08, 2015 Stallion's Gate, NM

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Brennan wasn't sure how or when she fell asleep. She half-suspected they'd slipped her some sort of medication, because the next thing she knew, she was struggling to open her eyes.

"Excuse me," a familiar male voice droned. "I realize that you are suffering from mild circadian dischronism…I mean jet lag…"

"I know what circadian dischronism is," she mumbled.

"I thought you might get angry at me for making this request, but I have to get your vitals right now, Dr. Beckett…I mean…" he paused. She heard the rustling of papers and then she heard a gasp. "Dr. BRENNAN?! Oh. My. God!"

Brennan opened her eyes, half-wondering if she was still dreaming.

"Zach?" she croaked. She was fully awake now. And she didn't know how in the world it was possible, but it was him. He was dressed in a white lab coat and the youthful innocence was gone, but it was the same Dr. Zach Addy; slightly gray at the edges and a little more wrinkled than she remembered, but it was, in fact, her colleague and friend who was recently charged with murder and serving time in an institution for the criminally insane.

"What are you doing here?"

"I should ask the same of you, Dr. Brennan, but we're not supposed to interfere with the leaps."

"The what?"

"Dr. Becket's work."

"You actually believe this science fiction?"

"Extend your arm, please," Zach requested, beaming from ear to ear. He wrapped a blood pressure cuff around the extended limb and nodded. "You look like Dr. Becket, you sound like Dr. Becket, but I'd know Dr. Brennan's disbelieving tone anywhere. This place was originally funded by the government, but with the economic downturn, funding was cut and Admiral Callavicci had to look to outside sources for help. Private donors."

"That still doesn't explain how you're here and not in an insane asylum."

"Dr. Hodgins' company became one of the major donors," he said, grinning even wider.

"So why aren't you back at the Jeffersonian?"

"My criminal record prohibits me from working for a government agency. Although I am sure you will realize the irony of that, since this is a government project.

Brennan nodded.

"Hodgins pulled some strings and I've been working here ever since. And it's not science fiction, Dr. Brennan. I assure you, Dr. Becket is highly respected in his field and even won a Nobel Prize for his work."

"That may be," Brennan answered. "But you can certainly understand why I find this hard to believe."

"People once thought that traveling to the moon was impossible, but one giant leap for man and thirty years later, and space travel has become a booming industry for the extremely rich. "

Zach continued. "The technology Dr. Becket implements to make time-travel possible was available even five years ago in your own time, we just didn't have the ability to apply it in such away to break the space-time continuum. Blood pressure appears to be within the normal parameters, although slightly elevated. Keep your arm held out, I'll need to take your pulse."

"Of course my blood-pressure would be elevated, I'm being held against my will!"

"Shhhh…" he said, looking at his wrist-watch.

"Both normal yet slightly elevated, although if you don't take a few deep breaths, I'd say you're well on your way to a cardiac arrest," he put the stethescope down around his shoulders.

"Get me out of here, Zach!" she demanded.

He brought out a mini-flashlight. "Follow the light please," he said.

"Dammit, Zach! Help me! I have to get out of here! Booth has to punish these people!"

"That would not be recommended," Zach answered, sticking a thermometer in her mouth. "Agent Booth has been imprisoned for the last seven years and is not eligible for parole for another two years."

Brennan's eyes opened wide and her nostrils flared at that.

"Your heart-rate, Dr. Brennan!"

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The Jeffersonian June 08, 2008 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

"Rebecca was a runaway," Sweets said as soon as the parents left. "The fact that the school wasn't even brought up in the conversation leads me to believe she wasn't a student there."

"So we find out what her connection is to the school?" Booth finished.

Sweets nodded.

"Well, what are we waiting for?" Booth asked. "Let's go poke around."

"I sort of wanted to take another look at the remains, see if I can give you anything else to go on before we ask any questions," Sam said. It was half-true. They really didn't know much yet, and didn't even have an official cause of death yet. But he was more interested in finding that Abby girl.

"It's not like Rebecca's going anywhere," Booth said. Sam couldn't argue with that.

And what was he going to say? 'Sorry, Booth, I can't go because the girl whose murder you're going to be charged with within the next forty-eight hours is still alive and I'd like to keep it that way.' No, it wouldn't fly.

"What about Parker?" Sam asked as a last ditch effort to pause the investigation.

"Way ahead of you, Bones," Booth replied. "Angela said she'd look after him until we got back from the school."

"Great," Sam said, and then muttering to himself. "Juuuust great." *~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Washington Conservatory of Music Twenty minutes later

It wasn't that Sam wasn't interested in who murdered Rebecca Holden. He *did* make a promise after all and he intended to keep it. But there were times when he wished that science would advance enough to allow him to be in two places at once.

"Back so soon, Agent Booth?" Margaret asked when they arrived at the front desk.

"Just here to ask a few questions," Booth said. "Can we talk to Dean Belcher?"

"Agents," Belcher said. "I thought I heard someone out there. Come in, come in. I presume this means you found something about that poor girl."

Sam showed him the composite Angela had drawn earlier.

"Do you recognize her?" Sam asked.

He shook his head. "She wasn't a student here," Belcher replied. "The piano professor is Dr. Thomas Callahan. He might have taught her at some point. Often, our professors avail themselves for lessons to people ouside the conservatory. Sometimes our students do as well."

"If you'll show us where his office is, that'd be great," Booth said.

*~*~*~*~ Callahan had never laid eyes on Rebecca Holden, either. It was beginning to look like the girl was invisible until a tall skinny woman with dyed red hair happened down the hall.

"Hey, Tom," she called out, "let me know about the…" she stopped in mid-sentence glancing at the picture of Rebecca that Sam still had in one hand. "Oh God…I know her."

"And you are…" Booth asked.

"Fran Dobson, professor of choreography here," she answered. "How do you know her?" Sam asked.

"One of the students introduced me to her. I was going to nominate her for a scholarship if she auditioned for the fall…such a shame…"

"Who introduced you?" Booth asked.

"Pez…I mean, Berkley Sanders. Lives in Emerson Hall."

Emerson Hall *~*~*~*~

A tall, wiry teenaged boy with blonde hair and olive skin answered the door.

"Berkley Sanders?" Booth asked, badge flashing.

"Oh God, this isn't about all those MP3's I downloaded, is it?"

Booth shook his head.

He nodded. "Can I help you?"

"I hope so. We're here investigating the murder of Rebecca Holden."

"Don't know her," Berkley mumbled, and tried to shut the door, but Booth forced it back open.

"Actually, I think you do," Booth countered. "I've got a witness saying that she was seen coming out of your room at 2 AM days ago. Now, I don't know all the rules around here, but that sounds like after visiting hours to me."

"Look, I told you!" Berkley insisted. "I. Don't. Know. Her."

"Maybe this might jog your memory," Sam said and showed him the picture.

"She's dead?" Berkley whispered, lips quivering.

"So you do know her," Sam said, clarifying.

"Yeah, I knew her," Berkley replied with a sniffle, "but her name's not Rebecca Holden."

"Who is it, then?" Booth demanded.

"February Jones. She danced at Jack Spade's, a strip club over on Berkley Street."

Just then the door opened. A tall man with light-brown skin entered. "Woah, Pez, who're the suits?"

"That's my roommate Marcus," Berkley explained.

"I'm FBI Special Agent Seeley Booth, and this is my partner Temperance Brennan. We're here investigating a murder that took place three days ago. Mind sticking around to answer some questions?"

"Febbie," Berkley explained.

"Oh man…Febbie?" Marcus said in an almost-whispered. "That's the girl they found yesterday?"

Booth nodded. "So you knew her, too?"

Marcus nodded, wiping a tear away.

"Did you go guys for the scenery and decide to help yourself one night?"

"What?" Berkley answered. "No. I'm…well…not exactly a lady's man," he said, looking down on the ground.

"No," Marcus said with a grin. "He's more of what you'd call a Lady-Man."

"Febbie was a great girl," Marcus continued. "but she's not exactly on our menu, if you know what I mean."

Booth nodded. "So how did you know her? She wasn't a student at the school."

"She may have worked the dance poll to pay the rent, but stripping was just a means to an end," Berkley said. "She was working to pay for tuition to come here. She was going to audition next week."

"Come here for what?" Sam asked.

"Dance," Berkley replied, rummaging around in his drawer for something. He pulled out a totebag and handed it to Booth. "This was hers. I let her stay here sometimes. She'd come from the strip-club, and then I'd take her into the dance studio for lessons. We'd be done so late and her second job was just around the corner, I didn't want her walking around out there by herself in this part of town at five in the morning."

Sam rummaged through it and saw tap shoes, ballet shoes and a leotard wondering if the boy ever found time to sleep.

Berkley continued. "Feb belonged on a real stage. I'm a senior here, going to Eastman next year, and I've seen a lot of good dancers come and go in my time, and a lot more people who just thought they were good dancers, but Feb…she was the real deal. When she danced, it was like there was this magic about her, like nothing else mattered in the world but the rhythm."

"So you took care of her," Sam said.

Berkley nodded. "She snuck into the dance studio one night while I was practicing. I tried to get her to leave, because it really freaked me out, but there was just something about her that said 'this one's special.' I mean, of all the places around here to break into and she chooses the dance studio?"

Booth nodded, urging him to continue.

"I introduced her to my teacher last week. Feb danced for her. She said she was good enough to be a contender for a full-ride scholarship. They only give one of those each year."

"Who else would be up for that scholarship?" Sam asked.

"Anyone applying for the fall semester," Berkley answered. "Ask Dean Belcher how many new applicants come each year. He could tell you better than I could."

Booth nodded.

Sam wished that the questions would lead to answers, but for now, they were just leading to more questions. Questions that would take time to answer. And time was running out for Abby.

And running out for Booth, too.

*~*~*~*~*~*~

Quantum Leap Head Quarters Waiting Room Stallion's Gate, NM June 08, 2015 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ "You have to get me out of here," Brennan pleaded with Zach.

"I TOLD you, Dr. Brennan, that would be an impossibility."

"I can't believe that you really buy this story that Booth's been charged with murder! That's something Booth would NEVER do. He hates killing people and even if he has no choice the act of taking someone's life haunts him. He's been a suspect before and the truth exonerated him then, so why isn't the truth on his side this time?"

"Booth was charged with murder before?" Zach asked.

"It happened after you left the Jeffersonian," Brennan explained.

"You mean during my time in the insane asylum before I myself was exonerated?"

Brennan nodded, feeling a pang of guilt for her role in what had to have been a horrible chapter in her former colleague's life. "He wasn't formerly charged, but he was the primary suspect for a time and questioned by the agent assigned to the case."

"But you found the real suspect?"

"Of course," Brennan said.

"I admit that I find the idea of Booth committing such an act preposterous. But then, I never thought I would be entangled with a cannibal."

"For what it's worth, I could never truly believe that you were Gormogon's apprentice. It's the same faith I had in you that I have in Booth now."

"Dr. Brennan, that doesn't change the fact that…"

"I have to help him. If I can get out and get back to the Jeffersonian, I can find the real killer. Parker won't have to see his father in handcuffs like I did. I can't let this happen, Zach."

"But it's not what you think out there. You'll be in the middle of the desert. You're not even YOU."

"Zach, I know that you are a pure scientist and I trust you."

"Thank you, Dr. Brennan."

"But for whatever reason, you've bought into this charade. Even if it really is true, if this Dr. Beckett person really can go back in time and change things, why this? Why now? Why not stop the deaths of all the victims whose murders we've solved over the years?" she choked back a sob. "Why not stop my mother's death, or…" she swallowed, taking one of Zach's scarred and mangled hands. "What happened to you, for that matter, " she finished in an almost-whisper.

"It's not a charade, Dr. Brennan," Zach said quietly. "And while I can't say that my term in an insane asylum was an entirely pleasant experience, it's part of who I am. And your experiences, even the tragic ones, make you who *you* are"

"You sound like Sweets," she said with a laugh.

"It's true," he said, smiling. "I put a bit more credence in psychology than I used to," he answered.

"How do I get out of here?"

"That door is the only way out," he said, pointing to what was, as far as Brennan could tell, just another wall. "Only personnel have access to it."

"How is it opened?"

"It's controlled electronically with an access card."

"So it would open if the power shut off?"

"Theoretically…Dr. Brennan why are you asking these…?"

"I don't want to do this, Zach, but I have no choice," she said, cutting him off. Before Zach could react, his head hit the floor.

She fumbled around in his pocket for his access card and cellphone and opened the door.

"Sorry Zach," she mumbled as the door to The Waiting Room opened.

Sirens blared and lights flickered on and off.

"THE LEAPER HAS ESCAPED THE WAITING ROOM. ALL AVAILABLE PERSONELL TO THE CONTROLS!" could be heard over the loud-speakers.

Corporal Anderson had his gun trained on her.

"Don't move!" he shouted.

"You don't want to shoot me, Corporal," Brennan warned. "I have a black-belt in karate. Just because I'm a girl does not mean I'm not afraid to kick you in the testicles!"

"What the…a girl?!" although Brennan herself was slightly confused as to why that was a question, she knew an opportunity when she saw one and took it. In two swift moves, Anderson was facedown on the floor. The weapon flew across the floor. Anderson tried to scramble for the weapon, but Brennan tripped him with her foot.

Training his own service weapon on the now-whimpering Corporal, she made it down the corridor as fast as she could, cursing Booth for not letting her practice her shooting more often on their cases.

"HE'S OVER HERE!" Anderson was croaking out behind her as soon as Brennan opened the door at the end of the corridor with her access card.

"DISABLE THE EXITS!" she heard the admiral's voice booming somewhere nearby. "NOBODY LEAVES OR ENTERS THE FACILITY!"

She found a desk in what was now an empty room and grabbed a paper-clip from a container full of office supplies and then ducked underneath it.

'An outlet!' she thought. 'Yes!' It would likely be enough to short out the power supply, but it could very well cause her to be electrocuted.

Or the strategy could fail entirely and she'd be at these people's mercies for who knew how long.

But there was no choice if she wanted to get out of here and get back to the Jeffersonian. And back to Booth. She had to take the risk.

As quietly as possible, she laid the gun down on the cold lenolium and as quickly as she dared, craned her neck above the desk to eye the exits.

She straightened out the paper clip and with the phone in the other hand, attached the paper clip to the power jack in the phone. The other end of the now-straightened paper clip was poised toward the electrical socket.

"Please work!" she mumbled, closed her eyes and glanced away as the paperclip made contact with the socket.

Sparks flew and silence fell. Suddenly, it was so dark that Brennan couldn't see in front of her face, but she managed to feel around on the floor and find the gun she'd stolen earlier on the floor next to her before she made a bolt for the door. Two guards were there, guns at the ready, but she shot one in the shoulder, and the other in the kneecap.

A bright, late-morning sun blinded her for a second. A hot, dry wind blew dust in her eyes, but she couldn't think about that now.

She'd escaped.

She was finally free.

All she could do now was run as fast and as far as her feet could carry her.


End file.
